Hostis Mei Hostis
by TheTeaMustFlow
Summary: After their victory at Hoover Dam, the army of the NCR advances east. But just outside Two Sun, the NCR-employed mercenary leader Katarina is the first to meet a new and dangerous player in the game for supremacy - and the Legion has cards left to play...
1. The First Moves

**Hostis Mei Hostis**

**Chapter 1: The First Moves**

War. War never changes. Two Thousand years ago, men marched for Rome against the world. But it all came crashing down. In the 20th Century, they marched for the Swastika and the Hammer and the Sickle. But it all came crashing down. In 2077, men marched for the Eagle and the Star. But it all came crashing down. In 2281, Caesar's Legion marched against the New California Republic. But at Hoover Dam, It all came crashing down.

But, the thing about Empires is they rarely die quietly. They go fighting and screaming, like the maddened, cornered animal that realises it has nothing to lose.

It didn't change after the Dam. Caesar dead, the Legate dead, crushing defeat after crushing defeat – the Legion should have fallen apart. It hadn't. They'd played a bad hand, against NCR's royal flush, but the game wasn't over. They'd retreated, they'd fought amongst themselves, but now they stood again. War wasn't about to end any time soon.

_`But then again`_, Katarina mused, _`They're still giving ground. It'll take awhile, but we'll still kill them`._ Nevertheless, she brushed her crimson hair away, raised the scope to her eye and scanned the night before her.

She'd been too late for the main event. She and her mercenaries had been too far west – by the time they reached Mohave Outpost, Legate Lanius had drawn his final breath. They'd helped with exterminating the fiends, pathetic chem.-maddened raiders, that infested the outskirts of Vegas, but the Kingmakers had soon moved to where they belonged – the frontline.

It had been a long time coming. `Kitten`, the slave in that godforsaken camp, would never have hoped to reach the NCR, let alone fight for it. But somehow they'd broken free. Forty slaves had overwhelmed ten legionaries, and fled. It had been a hopeless, foolhardy attempt, and for most of the slaves, it had proven fatal.

But she, Vulpa and Kjarlo had somehow made it, stumbling across the river with nothing but the rags they were wearing, a few guns and seven bullets. But the NCR had seen their potential – hardly anyone escaped the Legion, let alone without outside help. They'd formed a mercenary group, and now there were fifty of them – a big group, and good enough to beat Legion veterans. And her own squad were the nine best killers this side of Vegas. Well, apart from the Courier, but that went without saying.

Katarina, Vulpa and Kjarlo were the snipers. Vulpa had a tendency to shoot first and ask questions never, but Katarina had seen her gun down six super mutants in as many seconds with her rifle - she used a weapon ancient even before the Great War – a foreign bolt-action, the `Lee-Enfield`. They'd found the design on an ancient computer, and now, thanks to the ever-friendly Gun Runners, the infamous armoury of the NCR, it was the trademark weapon of the Kingmakers. Kjarlo, was the opposite – calm, measured, and about as lethal as the anti-materiel rifle he used.

Supporting them at range were the big guns, although madmen would be more appropriate, if you could call Smith & Wesson, the super mutant twins, men. Two amiable psychos, named after a pretty sign, found lost, confused and heavily armed at Black Mountain by the equally friendly and insane Preacher, their _de facto_ leader, en ebony giant of a man, fighting as much with storms of catechisms and faith as with storms of flame for his Grenade MG. They seemed trustworthy enough, and hadn't let Katarina down an inch, but she still had doubts about anyone in Advanced Power Armour, the infamous symbol of the Enclave. And Super Mutants were, well, Super Mutants.

And finally, the close quarters guys. Not that they used actual melee weapons much - Shotguns and SMGs were far better for the Legion. Except the boss up close, Cutthroat, an ever malevolent ghoul who preferred a shishkebab, an evil makeshift weapon that was, essentially an incredibly volatile and dangerous flaming sword. The ever-so slightly saner Joanna and Ross (who also, thanks to not being insane or non-human and being born the right side of Hoover Dam, had the most normal names in the unit) both used riot shotguns, and surprisingly for mercs, actually had the fire discipline to match their consummately professional personalities.

Well, road seemed to be clear. Legion had hunkered down about twenty klicks north on the road, in Two Sun. Her men and another hundred or so NCR regulars, plus twenty-four rangers, were camped in Green Valley, and once Phoenix to the North had finally fallen to General Moore, they were to take the beleaguered settlement and do some classic NCR diplomacy. Slowly and painfully. But no, Legion wasn't gonna make it easy for them-

Wait... Something in the ruins ahead...

"_CONTACT! CRIMSON, TONS OF THE BASTARDS!"_

Well, hope springs eternal. Suddenly the air was alive with gunfire. The Legion troops had been staying low, but they had been spotted now and had no intention of letting their enemies fight on their own terms, beginning the suicidally brave charge that made the Legion one of the best fighting forces in the wasteland. About three quarters of a hundred-strong group rushed straight against more than twice their number, and didn't even flinch as the bullets shredded them. Katarina had seen this dozens of times, but she didn't know whether to admire or pity the poor bastards – very few would live to reach the NCR line. This time, the charge wouldn't pay off – an outnumbered force against a well-armed and trained line was sheer idiocy. As she shifted her scope onto the rearguard, looking for the inevitable Centurion, Preacher, Smith and Wesson let rip with their monstrous weapons, reducing the last of the charge to scraps and ashes on the wind.

Katarina's sniper settled on the distinctive helmet of a Centurion. This was no ordinary sniper rifle – it had been modified for quick semi-automatic fire, the inevitable recoil compensated for by the cold calculations provided by the Pip-Boy on her wrist and the implants in her eye and brain (thanks, Usanagi – that had certainly been worth the steep price). She pulled the trigger, sending a .308 round into the Centurions head, reducing it to red mist. Six more shots scythed out of the barrel, ending the lives of the Vexillarius und four legionary veterans surrounding him. She took her eye from the scope, looking for something . Sure enough, it had been a slaughter – she couldn't see one NCR soldier or Kingmaker down, and before she could even aim, the last legionary fell to a Ranger's bullet. Someone had blundered, and it had cost the garrison of Two Sun in as many minutes.

"Cutthroat, Preacher, take your men forward," she called. "Let's see if we can't find out what these idiots thought they were doing." She put down the rifle – it would be a liability in the packed ruins – and drew the .45 Auto at her hip.

The way the Legion force had moved had been strange. They normally kept their troops spread out to avoid being mown down instantly by the superior ordinance of the NCR, as had happened here, and struck in waves, the first waves serving only to tire the enemy and expend their ammunition. But here, the commander had shown none of the cold, lethal logic that balanced the fanaticism of their infantry. He'd just thrown his troops to the slaughter.

A few NCR troopers, closer to the enemy, had beaten the Kingmakers to the ruin that had been the Centurion's grave. One of them had picked up a strange looking rifle from the commanders crumbled corpse. It was a Gauss rifle, one of the more peculiar (not to mention rarer) weapons of the wasteland – a bulkier, boxy sniper weapon, using the magnetic coils that surrounded the barrels to accelerate a tiny round to such speeds that it could reduce a man to tasteless, runny wallpaper. They were almost unheard of in the NCR – not even the Gun Runners could reproduce something like this. Katarina had only ever seen a couple in use, in the hands of the enigmatic Brotherhood of Steel and the diabolical Enclave – two remnants of the old world army, and who had pretty much the best technology in the Wastes. Finding something like this on a Legionary, even one so high ranking was unique – the Legion hated any technology more advanced than normal firearms, blaming it for contributed to the weakness that caused the Great War.

"Holy _shit_!" a corporal yelled behind her. "One of these jerks had _power armour_ – Hey, what the – "

Those were ill-fated NCO's last words, as the fallen soldier, rising like a vampire from its coffin, grabbed his neck and crushed it like a paper cup. Katarina put a whole clip from the .45 into his torso as the legionary pulled himself together, but, to her dismay, she remembered as the bullets bounced off the inches thick metal plates that she had loaded the pistol with hollow point rounds – perfect for killing the normally lightly armoured Legion troops, but here, against almost the pinnacle of protection, they barely marked the power armour. Why the hell did the Legion suddenly have all this technology? Most Legionaries would be lucky to get even a primitive firearm, let alone the kind of ordinance here... But her thoughts were cut off as the butt of the gauss rifle threw her against the wall even as the weapon roared – a strange, clanging sound, far from the barking report of a normal gun- and another soldier met their death from this unexpected assailant. It was a hopeless, frenzied strike, a futile last stand that was silenced as Cutthroat, quick as always, put his shotgun to the back of the doomed soldiers head and pulled the trigger, ending him in a shower of metal and blood.

"You might be a good leader, boss," he croaked, an evil, triumphant grin on his face, "but next time, stay away from the big ones. Remember what happened at Helios?"

"Yeah, thanks," she said, wincing as stimulants from her Pip-Boy knitted her broken ribs into place, "But more importantly, what in God's name is going – oh no, what _now_...`

For, twenty kilometres ahead, the skies above Two Sun were lit by artillery.

Author Note: This is my first fanfic – in fact, it's the first work I've ever published. I've probably made mistakes, so any constructive criticism will be appreciated. Although the Courier hasn't appeared yet, she (my Courier's a she) will do so by about chapter 3, although I don't intend to bring any other characters from New Vegas onstage at the moment. Incidentally, `_Hostis Mei Hostis_` is latin (more or less) for `The Enemy of My Enemy`. The reasons for this will become apparent. Thanks in advance for any advice, and please read chapter 2 when it comes out!


	2. From The Ashes

**Chapter 2: From The Ashes... **

Lieutenant Colonel Peterson looked at the papers in front of him and sighed. At forty-six, he was one of the oldest field officers in NCR's military, and despite an virtually spotless record (although not such an exceptional one), he had been kept back by the nepotism of officers such as General `Wait and See` Oliver, and had only in the past year made it up from Major, thanks to the not-entirely-voluntary retirement of Oliver after his poor performance in the Mohave. But now, with the army in the east under the command of the ruthlessly efficient General Moore and the unflappable Brigadier General Hsu, things were looking up for him, and the entire NCR army.

Or they were until an hour ago. Now, he knew that the shit was about to hit the fan, and he might be standing next to it.

"So they weren't attacking, Commander. They were running." He addressed Katarina, the commander of the Kingmakers, the sizable and deadly mercenary group that accompanied his troops. She was one of the strangest soldiers he had ever known – not exactly short, or exceptionally slim, but seemingly built to about nine tenths of average. She had strikingly red hair, and would probably look quite stunning if it wasn't for the dirt and grime of war, not to mention the scars from a Legion whip that dominated the left side of her face. Despite being a mercenary – a job that had a bad reputation in the wastes, most mercs were barely more than raiders, people you paid to kill, and then had to pay more to _stop_. With the rise of the NCR, the bones of many such mercenaries had populated the wastes – The forces of civilization had dealt with them like the wolves they were.

But where you got wolves, you got wolfhounds, and so it was with the Kingmakers. They were as disciplined and as governed by morals as the NCRs iconic rangers, and nearly as good (if, obviously, much smaller). Their leader had a hatred of the Legion as great as any, unsurprisingly for one who was once their slave. Countless soldiers of Caesar had been silenced by these men, and they weren't going to stop any time soon.

"They must have thought we still at Arizona City," offered Major Kyle, Peterson's Adjutant. "That, and getting pushed out of Two Sun, would explain how unready they were for us. Too bad for them we hit Marana yesterday."

"But more importantly, who hit them?" Asked Ranger Weaver. The NCR rangers had very little rank structure – Rangers were given command based on experience and skill. Weaver, a gaunt, ominous figure, who nonetheless was exemplary of the uncompromising morality of the rangers. "That Centurions report mentioned aircraft. Sounds like Enclave. But why would they attack here?" The Enclave were the malevolent remnants of the Old World government. Despite having, quite possibly, the best technology in the wastes, two wars against the NCR and the Brotherhood of Steel had left them virtually non-existent. But one always heard rumours, and ironically, the Courier had brought a squad of old Enclave troops into the defence of Hoover Dam. Apart from their unique power armour, their greatest weapon were the Vertibirds – Helicopters they used for transport and assault.

"The old air force base?" Katarina suggested. Davis-Monthan AFB was just southwest of Two Sun. "There's got to be something valuable there, if it hasn't been picked clean."

"An old AFB _less than one day's march ahead of the NCR's frontline, with nothing between us and it_," Weaver pointed out. "They aren't stupid. Besides, the Enclave's dead. Even if there's something left, somewhere, they wouldn't be able to force a two-hundred strong garrison into retreat. It has to be someone else."

"Well, we won't find out here," Peterson said. "Weaver, Katarina: Take a small group and check this out. Whoever's there, talk to them if they seem friendly, but don't fight them. See if you can find out about Legion using high-tech stuff too – if we're going to lose our biggest advantage against them, we want to be warned about it Report back by 1200 hours tomorrow. Normal radio protocol. Understood?"

"Sir!" They saluted the officer and left to find out what the hell was going on.

It was twenty kilometres from the NCR encampment to Tucson. This was one of the most sparsely-habited places in the Wastes, by man or beast – it was arid and hostile even before the war, and had neither had the great rebuilding of the Core Region, the NCR heartland, or the protection and technology of the Mojave Wasteland. Trade had dried up in Arizona thanks to Legion oppression and the war – any merchant with a brain had moved on to the now-safe (ish) New Vegas. The Legion had made a desert, and until recently had called it peace.

So they were surprised when, five km from Two Sun, Vulpa, on point, hissed at them to get down.

"What is it?" Katarina whispered, as she and Weaver crawled level with her behind a rock.

"Six guys in power armour, eleven 'o clock."

"I have them. Looks like the Brotherhood – You see the insignia?"

"Yeah," Weaver answered, "As if there wasn't enough problems."

"We are _supposed_ to have a truce with the bastards." Vulpa pointed out, but the doubt in her voice was evident. Even if the NCR and Brotherhood of Steel had stopped killing each other on sight, thanks to the bigger problem that was the Legion, they were far from friendly. The BoS was a neo-knightly order, formed from a remnant of the old US army. Their mission, in their own view, was to `protect humanity from itself`, specifically from technology. Thus, they took it upon themselves to confiscate any articles of advanced technology from anyone they met (_for their own good_, of course), killing any who disagreed and noticeably did very little in the way of protecting people from less esoteric dangers, like starvation, raiders, and huge radioactive mutated monsters. Accordingly, the rest of the wasteland generally saw them as a bunch of murderous, technology-worshipping freaks with big guns. The NCR, sharing this view (and wanting to keep their shiny tech, thank you so very much), had all but wiped out the Brotherhood near its territory, and relations were thus somewhat chilly. But even so...

"They are technically our allies," Katarina said, "so we may as well say hello, and incidentally ask what the hell they think they're doing." She got to her feet and shouted, "Hey! Steel! Over here!" The power armoured figures spun round, levelling their formidable weapons. "It's all right, we're NCR. Your _allies_, remember?"

As they slowly lowered their arms, one of the BoS soldiers stepped forward. "My name is Paladin Matthews, Mojave Brotherhood of Steel," He said disdainfully, his voice muffled by the heavy helmet. "What do you want?"

"I am Katarina, commander of the Kingmakers mercenary group, with NCR armed forces. _I_ am scouting. Why are _you_ here? This is not Brotherhood territory."

"Nor is it _your_ territory." Matthews retorted.

"Give it a week. And I think the agreement said you were to stay out of Arizona. Do you think General Moore is going to be happy when she finds otherwise?"

"_Who says she's going to find out?_" one of the Knights said, raising her laser rifle, prompting similar actions from the Kingmakers and Rangers.

"_LOWER YOUR WEAPON_, _KNIGHT!_" Matthews barked. "No, we know what the treaty says. But this is not a military operation –"

"Says the guy with the power armour and the Gatling Laser..." Weaver interrupted.

"- _And it is important_." Matthews finished in consternation. "We are following a few leads."

"Such as Legionaries with high-tech weapons?" Katarina guessed. "And Two Sun getting stormed?"

"Are there any secrets these days?"

"Well then we have the same objective, for now. Lead on, Paladin."

It took them until dawn, walking in distrusting silence, to reach Two Sun, slowed down by the cumbersome knights as they were. It was a typical Legion town – barely distinguishable from a ruin, at a distance. Unlike the other civilisations of the wasteland, the Legion rarely bothered constructing or renovation buildings – Most lived in a tent, under the stars, or if lucky, a building that remained. They were quiet places, when it came to civilians – even the free traders tended to keep silent around the Legion, lest they lose that freedom.

But here, there was... nothing. The town was _deserted_. All the signs of life, the bedrolls and cooking fires, the tents and tables, they were all gone. All that remained was the palisade that surrounded anything the Legion built. And much of that had been reduced to ashes, cinders and dust.

"This doesn't fit with anyone we know." Kjarlo stated flatly as the others expressed disbelief. "If it was Enclave or mercs, they wouldn't clean up the corpses. If it was Super Mutants, they might take the corpses, but there'd be debris everywhere. And anyway, no-one who could take this place would bother to take the tents. In fact, pretty much the only people who would take the crap from the camp with this much diligence would be the inhabitants themselves."

"Maybe someone abducted them?" A Knight suggested.

"And let them take everything?" Vulpa said doubtfully. "It'd take hours to pack up the whole camp. Besides, there'd be a column a mile-"

Weaver suddenly clamped his hand over her mouth. "_Listen._"

There were voices coming from round the corner of the street,

"...think it came from somewhere round here, sir. Sounded like some of them power-armoured bastards..." The voice spoke in a strange accent – Katarina felt she'd heard it before somewhere...

"Oh _shit_," Weaver whispered urgently, "What are those arrogant idiots doing now?" Katarina turned round even as the heard the heavy steps of the Knights – they were advancing straight down the street.

"_Whoever you are, show yourselves!_" Matthews roared as the NCR soldiers inwardly groaned. Snipers to a man, they watched in horror from the ruins as the Brotherhood troops gave away their position to the world.

Within seconds ten barrels were levelled at the Knights. The strangers, though not as imposing as the tank-resembling men opposite them, were nonetheless some of the best-equipped soldiers Katarina had ever seen, outside of the Brotherhood, Enclave or her own squad. Each wore what looked like some sort of dark blue-ish Combat Armour (made of polymers and ceramics, Combat armour was used once by the Pre-War army and now by elite troops in the NCR, including the Rangers and Katarina's squad. Though light, it could resist any form of attack, up to a point), and most carried a heavy-duty battle rifle – around .308 calibre, she guessed, like her own weapon. That could probably go through the power armour without a problem, and besides, another carried a missile launcher.

"The Brotherhood of Steel, I presume?" The speaker was a tall, well-built man, around his late thirties. Unlike his helmeted companions, he wore a blue beret, with a wing-like cap badge, and carried a slender sword at his side. Katrina also noticed a three-star insignia on his right shoulder that the others lacked – just below a red and white cross on a blue background. "Drop your weapons and surrender. You will not be harmed."

Again with the accent – and she had seen that cross symbol before...

"You think you can order _us_ around? _We Are Steel_. I don't know who you are, grunt, but you will regret those words."

"Shame. _Fire_!"

The Knights almost instantly brought their weapons to bear – but three of them were not fast enough, as sniper rounds suddenly lanced from the shadows, ending them before they even fired a shot. The other two Knights almost as quickly fell to the hail of lead from these strange, deadly soldiers, hitting nothing but concrete with their last volleys. Only Matthews remained, the red beams from his Gatling Laser dropping one of the soldiers, but that was the last thing he ever did – the officer moving with deadly speed and grace, had brought his sword – now surrounded by an aura of blue energy – into Matthews neck, decapitating him. The Paladin did not even have time to regret his mistake.

"Corporal, is Venable alive?"

"Fraid not, sir."

"Damn. You six in the rubble! Come out with your hands up!"

Katarina looked at Weaver – as a Ranger, he technically outranked her, so the decision was his.

"We don't have much of a choice," he whispered. "Let's hope we get on better."

Slowly, the NCR group came out into the open, hands raised and weapons holstered. The mysterious troops did not gun them down, which was a good start.

"Ah, the New California Republic Rangers. You can lower your arms." A thin smile formed on the officer's face. "And mercenaries... if you're here, that must mean you are with the Kingmakers, correct?"

"Correct," said Katarina, returning the smile. It looked like these people were not as hostile to the NCR as they were to the Brotherhood (and who could blame them?). "I'm Katarina, the Kingmakers' commander. And who are you?"

"Charmed, I'm sure, but one moment..." He reached to his belt and raised a field radio to his mouth. "Broadsword calling Danny Boy, Broadsword calling Danny Boy... Tell Father McCrae Winnie has knocked on the door. Repeat, Winnie has knocked on the door. Broadsword out." He turned back to Katarina and Weaver. "Sorry about that. I am Captain William Blake, of the His Majesty's American Expeditionary Force. Welcome to the British Commonwealth."

Author Note: Yes, the British. I haven't seen much in the way of fiction based on contact between America and the rest of the world, so I thought it might be a good hook. (We already knew something was left in Britain – Tenpenny and Moriarty are native English and Irish respectively). By 2282 it's over 200 years since the Great War, which would be enough time for Britain to recover up to a point. As you might guess, the Expeditionary Force is the "Enemy of My Enemy". Next chapter might be a while and probably won't have much action, sorry. Thanks and keep reading!


	3. Rose The Phoenix

**Chapter 3: ...Rose the Phoenix**

"Well, look on the bright side, sunshine." Vulpa remarked with surprising jollity to Kjarlo as the British soldiers `escorted` them through the airbase. "It could be a hell of a lot worse."

Despite the stoically pessimistic attitude that had got him through the bouts of (albeit recently rather lucrative) violence that had been his life, Kjarlo felt cautiously hopeful about the Expeditionary Force. Although their more impressive armaments had been taken, the NCR group had – surprisingly enough – been left their sidearms, not to mention the extensive amount of medical and infiltration equipment miniaturised within the Kingmaker's Pip-Boys. Given half an hour alone, the group could probably escape without comparative trouble. Perhaps what Captain Blake had said was perfectly honest? That they would happily talk with the NCR, and that they were `guests`, not prisoners?

"Maybe, Cub, (in response to Vulpa's incredibly innovative nickname for him, Kjarlo – More than a decade the twenty-four-year-olds senior – had taken to mocking the girls youth and name) maybe. When we get back to Peterson with all our limbs attached, I'll share your enthusiasm..."

Davis-Monthan AFB, once of the USAF, now belonging to the British Expeditionary Force, looked like most civilised military bases from Shady Sands to London looked, except for the fact this one had almost as many civilians as soldiers within its walls. Due to their hatred of advanced technology, the then-active defences, and general Spartan hard-headedness, the Legion had refused to occupy or even go near the airbase, despite the fact that it was far more intact than the ruins of old Tucson – no bombs had fallen very near, and the years took far less a toll on the reinforced concrete of the base. The small population of Tucson easily shared the space with the Expeditionary force, and it would be far more defensible against the inevitable Legion response. The British had arrived here as liberators, not conquerors.

The squads `escort` led them into a large concrete building near the main hangar. Considering the prominence of the British flag – called the `Union Jack`, apparently – and the heavy guard around it, it looked like the HQ. Katarina's guess on this front was proved correct by the big sign saying `Headquarters`. Bit of a giveaway, that. They were brought into a large office, the most prominent features of which were the large holographic map, and the two figures behind it. One, a short but heavily built man, about forty years old, with such a heavy beard and moustache that his mouth could barely be seen, wore the normal British combat armour, albeit with more medals than normal and a rank insignia bearing a crown and two stars. The other, a tall, lanky man in grey fatigues, seemed to make up for his height by having half the presence of the other.

"Well, just keep trying, they should crack eventually. To your duties, lieutenant (he said the word strangely, as `leftenant`), the smaller man said. The other saluted and hurried out.

"Ah, Captain Blake." He said, turning, a smile forming even through the hair. "It looks like the day we've hoped for has finally arrived. My name is Colonel Timothy Vaughan. Please be seated..."

Katarina slid, grateful but desperately avoiding showing it, into a chair – it had been a long walk from Marana to Davis-Monthan, but she was damned if she was going to show that in front of this foreign commander.

"Your report, Captain."

Vaughan watched intently as Blake told his story, his face unreadable. He didn't even blink on hearing about Blake's efforts in `diplomacy` with the late Paladin Matthews.

"Thank you, Captain. Well done in getting some more power armour. All we need to do now is work out how to _use_ the bloody things and we'll be doing quite nicely..." the Colonel finally gave his attention to the NCR soldiers. "Everything seems to be happening faster than we thought. We've barely been here a day and already we've made contact with the one civilised nation that didn't exist before the bombs fell, and it looks like we showed up just in time for the third round. Doubtless you have a lot of questions, but they can wait. I can, however, answer the most important one – we don't have a problem with the New California Republic, and we aren't about to fight you. We are all about to have much bigger problems." He had changed from the polite, rather tired tone he had used earlier to a curt, laconic bark. Vaughan evidently was a man used to command and obedience, and he seemed to expect no less discipline from foreign troops than his own. He didn't seem hostile though – just professional to a fault.

"Bigger problems... sir?" Weaver added the honorific somewhat hesitantly – Rangers and mercenaries, both outside the normal chain of command, were often unused to standing on protocol with NCR officers, let alone British ones. Still, it didn't hurt to be polite.

"You have, doubtless, encountered and destroyed the remnants of the Tucson garrison – they ran your way, thinking Marana was still their territory. They used – albeit in a limited fashion – advanced energy weapons and power armour, both of which are completely at odds with known Legion doctrine. I'm afraid that this is not unique. Legion units, currently in reserve, have been equipped with advanced technology. We don't know how, but we have our suspicions, which are none of your business. How we know this before you is also none of your business. But it's reliable."

"Why've they changed strategies? I've seen Legionaries fight Paladins with their bare hands rather than use a laser." Katarina said. "Though I suppose losing both their leaders may have got them to rethink their methods..."

"Exactly. Caesar's methods lost him his life, so they are obviously flawed. This opinion – and this changed can be traced to one man, one Tribune Cicero, the governor of Arizona. He's come out best in the Legion's infighting, and now calls himself Caesar Augustus."

"Knows his history, then."

"Quite. He now has the entirety of Caesar's Legion under his banner, and has been readying troops for a counterattack ever since Hoover Dam. The _Vexillation_ under his personal command numbers over 1500 men, all armed with the best weapons he can get his hands on. This is the Legions final gambit –if that force is beaten, or Augustus goes the way of Caesar, the Legion goes with him."

"You make it sound so easy..."

"Whatever happens, _we_ don't have a chance at that. He's advancing on Phoenix, with one thousand of his _Vexillation_ – he calls them the _Venatos Arctor_, the Bear-Hunters – and two thousand regulars. This will leave General Moore outnumbered five to three. Three hundred more are coming, with about five hundred regulars, straight at us. They should hit in about a week. I have three hundred men now, possibly fifty more by then –we've been recruiting from the civilians and ex-slaves around here. How many do you have?"

The grim mental calculations spinning through their heads, the NCR soldiers were too dismayed to immediately answer. Weaver recovered first.

"Hundred regulars, twenty-four Rangers, and fifty Kingmakers."

So about five-hundred men against eight hundred, with civilisations greatest asset – superiority of weapons – lost.

"Oh, shit." Vulpa groaned, summing up the situation with depressing accuracy. Her face suddenly jerked up, alert. "You came in on aircraft, right sir? Couldn't you-

Vaughan raised his hand, stopping her. "Only one of our helicopters is airworthy, and I'm not sending that to die. It turns out that gatling lasers make quite good light AA."

"_Shit."_

Katarina sighed. What had been an unstoppable advance might now become a rout. But it wasn't as if the NCR armies were cut off, and considering the forces this Augustus was fielding, he had few reserves to call on. "Looks like we have no time to waste," she said resignedly. "So we should report to the boss, and hope to heaven he can get us some reinforcements."

Without waiting for an answer, she reached to the Pip-Boy on her right arm, and twisted a dial on its side. The crackle of radio static came through, shortly replaced by Lieutenant Colonel Peterson's hoarse voice.

"Peterson here."

"Sir, you are not going to believe this, but-"

"I am in a position to believe most things, Katarina." The officer interrupted in an almost ghoul-like voice. He far more tired than he had a few scant hours ago. "Things up at Phoenix have gone to hell. Waves of new reinforcements with weapons almost worthy of the Brotherhood, and another such contingent headed our way. Luckily, the brass had... suspicions, though unsurprisingly, no-one thought to tell a lowly lieutenant colonel. Accompanied by forty Securitrons, Nica Shest herself."

Katarina's eyes widened. "_The Courier?"_

Author Note: Sorry it took a while to get this chapter out – education has been doing it's best to get in the way. Wasn't much action this time, a problem I intend to address next chapter. At least I've finally set the stage for the Legions new leader and the Courier (incidentally, `Shest`` is Russian for 6 in phonetic English). Thank you and keep reading and reviewing!.


	4. Couriers, Colonels and Centurions

**Chapter 4: Couriers, Colonels and Centurions**

Despite the dangers of pain, dismemberment, torture and death, Courier Six would be glad to reach Davis-Monthan. Under the shadow of the impending counterattack, the contingent under Lieutenant Colonel Peterson had beat a forced march to the Air Force Base, and the combined forces of enlightened civilisation were hastily fortifying against the barbarian hordes. The reason for her eagerness was simple – though they were devastating weapons of war, Securitrons, combat machines that looked made awful conversationalists. Regrettably, she hadn't been able to muster any of her old companions, the less-sung-of heroes of Hoover Dam, on the short notice General Cassandra god-damned Moore had given her. So in the reinforcement group, she was the sole human, and the lack of real company was really starting to grate. Hell, now she'd even settle for the infuriatingly unchangeable happiness of Yes Man, the aptly named AI that controlled the Lucky 38 casino, the centre of New Vegas. It had once been the lair of Mr House, a stasis-ised pre-war businessman who had built New Vegas. Now he was dead, and the Casino and its army of battle robots belonged to the Courier.

`_One would think that a `Securitron` would be a lightly armed thing for watching shops`_, she mused. _`And one would certainly not expect the missile launchers_. After Hoover Dam, she had had some upgraded to be even deadlier, replacing the laser and SMG in the arm with a Bozar, basically the bastard son of a sniper rifle and a machine gun, capable of blasting rank upon rank of crimson-armoured troops into equally crimson stains. She just wished she'd thought to change their voices.

Only another couple of hours to Two Sun. Cursing House for not preserving an old world car, she took a look at the reports the NCR Intelligence Corps and her own contacts had given her.

Despite his prominence, no-one west of the Colorado knew much about `Caesar Augustus`, even from when he was still Cicero. Thanks to the effectiveness of the Frumentarii, NCRs efforts to spy on the Legion had never been very successful. Barring a general impression of nastiness and pragmatism, he remained an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped, most likely, in a funny hat. Before the two battles of Hoover Dam, Caesar had deliberately _spread_ intelligence about the Legion, allowing rumour, often not much more horrifying than the truth, to works its evil magic among the ranks of the NCR, particularly the twin legends of the Legates, Graham and Lanius. But that had turned against them, as legend and lore now served the Profligates – the dark spectres of Caesars lieutenants disappeared, with Joshua Graham falling in flames down the grand canyon, the same dark idol twisted into the Burned Man, destroying, avenging angel of Canaan. And with Lanius literally mere ashes floating on the wind, upon his pedestal now stood his and his master's slayer – Courier Six, Last, Best Hope of Humanity. (_`That is to say, Me`_.) All of the Legions old `heroes` had died where they stood, piled into unmarked graves by tides of soldiers and robots, and the Couriers, officers, rangers and mercenaries who lead them. Reputation was NCRs tool now, so Augustus was keeping his best poker face up.

But that would change once again if he won here. A (comparatively) unknown Legion commander turning the tide against the NCR, defeating a mysterious army from across the seas, and most importantly, killing Nica, succeeding where Caesar, Lanius, Elijah, Salt-Upon-Wounds, Ulysses and countless others had failed would shatter the Republic's morale even more than Hoover Dam had shattered the Legion's. That would make General Moore's defeat certain, and might even finally put New Vegas under the flag of the Bull.

They couldn't lose here. She couldn't lose here.

Still, she wasn't completely in the dark – they still knew a little about the enemy. But there were too many unanswered questions – Why the change in dogma? Legion didn't change, didn't adapt – she'd seen Legionaries go up against machine guns with their _fists_ rather than use `dissolute` weaponry. Perhaps Augustus (or Cicero, or whatever) had seen the writing on the wall, painted with the guts of his less-wise comrades? But even then, how would he get his men and allies to kick the habits many had ingrained in their skulls from birth? And more importantly, how had he got all this stuff? He had drawn, seemingly from nowhere, more power armour than there probably was in the entire Mojave. _And he knew how to use it_. Even after almost 100 years of searching, the NCR hadn't even found an instruction manual. Barely a dozen people in the entire army could stand up in it, let alone move (Nica being one of them), and they only knew from word of mouth, and couldn't teach the rest. But Augustus had suddenly got hundreds of them.

This couldn't just be Legion suddenly getting innovative. Someone, or some_thing_, was helping them. But who would work with _them_? The only people who could tolerate those of the kill-everything-that-isn't-us school of diplomacy were also of the kill-everything-that-isn't-us school of diplomacy, but they killed everything that wasn't them _including_ fellow students of the kill-everything-that-isn't-us school of diplomacy, on basic principle.

At times, Wasteland politics could somewhat depressing.

Even putting the question of the Legions improved armoury aside, there was perhaps a bigger question that needed answering. Though competent, none of the three commanders she had at Tucson were politicians. Weaver and Katarina (no last name given – not unusual in anyone who grew up in the Legion, though the first name was surprising) both seemed to see the world in black and white. They'd spent most of their adult lives (not long for the mercenary – the Dossier said she was only 26) on the eastern frontier, where you had NCR (good, more or less) versus Raiders or BoS or Legion (bad). Though not naïve or trusting, they would pay attention to the possibility of dissent or betrayal from their allies when there were enemies in front of them. Peterson might be more cynical, but he was apparently one to ignore politics, an attitude Nica had always disapproved of. You might stay out of politics, but it didn't stay out of you.

No, when it came to dealing with the British, it was down to her. They might actually prove friendly for now, and they might indeed not have any problems with the NCR, but their story just didn't check out. Of all the places to land in the entire American Wastes, why land in an airfield between two major powers doing their best to grind each other into the dust, _on the opposite side of the whole freaking continent from them_? And why send three hundred men? There were two reasons they had said they were here for, in the whole sixteen hours there had been communication between them and the NCR; To explore and to civilise. Exploration would be better done by just dropping lone men with radios, and they sure as hell wouldn't `civilise` much with three hundred guys, not unless they were all carrying GECKS. Their poker face was just as unreadable as Augustus'. All Nica knew about both was that they'd be trouble, and if she didn't play her hand as well as either did, they might as well have put a white flag over Hoover Dam.

_`Issy Monfon. Lay onglay parlay a onglay. Vossi kelke messaj personnel…`_ Centurion Seneca turned off the machine with a curse. It had been easy enough to pick up the new profligates' signal. But what had come out had been gibberish. He _thought_ the last word of the first section had been `personnel`. Otherwise, it was just one constant line - _`Issy Monfon_` ad nauseam – then three or so varying sections, equally unintelligible. He'd written it all down, and Decanus Scaevitas was going through every possible cipher, for every spelling possible, but they hadn't got anything. All things considered, he was glad he was no longer serving under Legate Lanius (may he be avenged), who had beaten his predecessor to death for misinterpreting a BoS message. Even with the (in the privacy of Seneca's mind) thankful replacement of Caesar- Caesar _Sallow_, he checked himself – and Lanius (may the Profligates suffer for their deaths) with the less terminally insane Caesar Augustus, the position of chief communications officer in the Army of the West was not enviable. Almost all the Frumentarii had been lost when the Courier's (may she suffer eternally for her sins) robots had wiped the Fortification Hill encampment off the face of the earth, including their leader, Vulpes Inculcta (may the Dissolute have justice executed upon them for the death of his honourable, Nipton-massacring, radiation bomb-planting personage), and the surviving supply and communication officers now had the impossible task of doing their jobs. Quartermasters, regrettably, made poor fifth-column organisers. Offering a short prayer to Mars, he pressed an unfamiliar button on his unfamiliar Pip-Boy. The image in his right eye was suddenly changed to computer script, and the visages of his superiors.

"Well, Centurion?" - a harsh, cool voice, obviously used to command. Blinking back tears from the feedback of the unfamiliar implant, Seneca heard a voice respond, and was mildly surprised to find it was his.

"Nothing found, _Imperator_. Just waves of gibberish."

"Would you kindly repeat this gibberish?" – a voice equally icy and confident as the first, but laced with refinement and contempt. More notable, however, was the fact that it belonged to a woman, and that it bore an accent not heard in America for two hundred years.

"Of course… _ma'am_. Uh, _`Issy Monfon. Lay onglay parlay a onglay. Vossi kelke_ – `"

"Hah!" the woman exclaimed, a cruel smile covering her lips. "The British have far too much pride and arrogance, and not enough caution. Thank you, Centurion. Relay the entirety of the message and all future transmissions to me. You are dismissed."

_`Ici Monthan. Les Anglais parlent aux Anglais. Voici quelques messages personnels…`_ Colonel Vaughan turned off the machine with a smile that had nothing to do with humour. He hoped this wouldn't work. It was a taunt to an enemy, if it indeed existed, a reminder of history, a boast that it would repeat itself. But it was also bait, a stick thrown to a dog (or possibly in this case a bull or eagle) to distract it from the meat, which he was about to put down for his own. With practised ease, he flipped a switch on the familiar computer on his wrist, a cousin of those treasured by many in the American Waste. A younger, far more advanced cousin. The image on his right eye was replaced with that of one of his subordinates.

"Sir!" the captain said, saluting. Ignoring the feedback as he would the recoil of his rifle, Vaughan addressed the officer:

"Hello Captain. How is Elise?"

Seemingly unfazed by his commander calling him on a secure secret line to ask him about family, the Captain responded in a casual, offhand tone.

"Oh, well enough, sir, well enough."

"Have you got her a Christmas present yet?" – An even stranger question for the middle of July.

"Not yet sir, but I have a few ideas."

"That's nice. See you later."

That was the important matter. _That_ mission was what they had come to America for. He knew that if _they_ were aiding the Bull, _they_'d find out soon. Perhaps _they_ already knew – perhaps _they_ had come here for _that_ too.

He regretted using the NCR like this. From all he knew, the Republic, like the Commonwealth and the Confederacy, existed to restore that which had been lost, to rebuild the old world.

Ah yes, the Confederacy. Indirectly, of course, they were the real reason for the British Presence. For the United Kingdom had not been the only nation in Europe to survive October 23rd, 2077. In one of life's (not to mention death's) little ironies, it had been little, weak, and above all _neutral_ country that had risen to become the greatest power of the post war world. Neutrality, along with mountains and fallout shelters in every house, had saved Switzerland. It had taken His Majesties government fifty years to re-establish control over its realm, and it had been _lucky_. It took the Swiss ten months. They controlled most of Northern Europe now, having after a brutal and bloody stalemate agreed to split control with the Commonwealth, giving the south to Britain. Officially, the two nations were now best of friends. _Officially_.

But _officially_, America and China were still at war. Though they had stopped firing, both powers were scrambling to get an edge on each other. _That_, along with the natural satisfaction in grabbing land not covered by the Treaty of Paris,was why His Majesties Armed Forces now stood in the land that five hundred years ago had rebelled against them. The… _resource_… Vaughan was searching for was too powerful to allow another group to own, especially not the Legion (or their `friends`). But the last thing the Commonwealth wanted was another Superpower in the radiation-ravaged world, and that included the NCR. Whether destroyed, assimilated or allied with, the Two-Headed Bear had to be leashed.

Author Note: Once again, an apology for an extreme gap between chapters. The good old British education system is doing its level best to keep me from publishing.

So… DUN DUN DUN! SINISTER THINGS! Explanations and more questions! Who is the Legion's mysterious friend? What is this… _resource_… The British want? Where's the action I promised in the previous author note? These questions and more may or may not be answered next chapter. Thank you, reading and reviewing appreciated as always.

PS. Yes, all British radio protocol is going to be war movie in-jokes, along with a few historical codes. I had to fit in a few shout-outs _somewhere_.


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